Game Drive with Grant

Traveling on a game lodge in an open Landrover, we were experiencing Africa like it was and like it always should be - wild and exciting, adventurous and totally unpredictable. Bound by mystery and emotion and completely free from time constraints.

It was the unpredictability of this particular game drive which will remain memorable - possibly the most memorable - although each outing is a wholly new adventure.

We were heading for Vincent's view - an immensely spiritual spot on the banks of the Sabi River, where we were planning to observe another classic Bushveld Sunset. Our first interruption was from the elusive Aardvark. The first word in many dictionaries, it is often the last thing to be spotted by even some of the most seasoned game viewers. With its bashful appearance and ungainly ambling it held center stage for a captive audience. For an Aardvark to appear in public is a daunting experience for the Aardvark, and it must have considered this an epic performance as it scuffled and foraged around nervously before its shyness got the better of it and it crept away into the dense bush, with only the tips of its disproportionately large ears visible above the scrub.

Our excited chatter was silenced at the sight of a lioness with its teenage cub plodding slowly down the road, walking in front of us. We turned off our lights and followed quietly behind them. Sunset for a lion marks the beginning of a new adventure and the cub was playing jovially with its mother who seemed to be disinterested, yet amazingly patient.

Suddenly she stopped. The cub followed suit, and Grant, our ranger, sensing a new attitude in her behaviour switched off the engine and coasted silently to a halt. We all leaned forward, listened intently and strained our eyes into the increasing darkness. We waited.

It seemed like forever as our excitement grew - pushed by confusion and uncertainty and pulled by anticipation. Until eventually our questions were answered by the silhouetted appearance of a very young hippo who had just crested the river bank.

The cub saw this as a golden opportunity to show off to Mom and establish himself firmly in the annals of lion excellence. He was entering the lion hall of fame, and he was going to do it on his own. Mom knew better (which teenagers only realise is true when they've stopped being teenagers). But she let him go - probably torn between the age-old altruistic urge of mammals to protect, and the realisation that to learn, their young must experience life's lessons first hand.
She sat knowingly yet full of worry while he stalked eagerly. Surprise was on his side and he quickened his pace, in so doing sacrificing patience and any outside chance he may have had. The young hippo turned to face, and took only a few paces back in startled amazement.

It was a stand off and so began a delightful dance demonstration, perfectly choreographed - one step forward, two steps back, while they sized each other up, until they both rushed down the bank out of sight but certainly not out of earshot. They crashed through the bush, then a moment of quiet, then another crashing through the bush in which the cub appeared almost as quickly as he had disappeared. He looked, or tried to look, proud and victorious.

Mom knew better. He had failed in his quest but was home to Mom and Royco - and she would believe his stories of grandeur and bravery and restore his pride and lick his wounds and slowly but gently remove the tail from between his legs.

The pair trotted off again and cut off the path, the bond between them stronger and the cub a little closer to realising that mothers are indeed wonderful things.

The sun was down by now but we stopped nonetheless to soak up the excitement of the past few hours - not to mention a couple of beers.

We were savouring each sight and sound and smell- each second - and when we thought we were the luckiest group out that night - it got better!

From behind a bush that rustled and into the spotlight, upon which we were so intensely focused since that bush spoke, appeared the tips of two long poles. They kept coming, their source of support not yet visible. We knew at once that these were the largest living pair of tusks in the world. The oldest living pair of tusks in the world. The oldest most certainly, and probably the last. The last of the great tuskers, carrying enough ivory to retire on. A prize in anyone's books, but a prize worth infinitely more alive than as a selfish trophy above the fireplace.

The Magnificent Mandleve.

His monstrous head swayed in time with the tusks - not wanting to upset the rhythm, which if disturbed could probably dislocate his neck! Such were the size and weight of these trophies. He rested them whenever and wherever possible - his back distinctly concave after years of holding them high. Old he was, but proud and dignified he most certainly was.

Such was the awe of his presence that no-one reached for a camera. We were totally mesmerized by the mystery of maximum moonlight and the Magnificent Mandleve.

He had experienced "the winds of change" which had swept through Africa and could probably tell a few stories of his travels, the mere mention of his name causing generations of admiration and awe and fear and respect.

As mysteriously as he had appeared, he disappeared - his blessing etched on out memories forever.

Some things don't die. Mandleve is such a thing.
The last thing I remember of that evening was the guttural roar of the male lion. Deafeningly loud and starting from the bowels of the earth it reached a crescendo not yet reached by jet aircraft. The King had spoken and I for one reached spiritual overload of a class which Ray McCauley only dreams about inducing during an economic boom at Christmas time.

We had spoken directly to God on four occasions in one game drive.

This was Africa at its finest and in a land where time is irrelevant, our timing was perfect.

Thank you, Grant, for showing me exactly why, as white people, we stick around in a collapsing Africa, where excitement and spirituality combine and are unmatched.
P. S. Mandleve, of course, did die, physically at least. But he died with unprecedented dignity in a place where he was sovereign and a place made all the more sacred by his death - the Sabi River.